


Ghost

by Anonymous



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Bipolar 2 Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, Depression, EMDR, Gen, Graphic Suicide Attempt, Guilt, Hospitals, Involuntary Psychiatric Hold, Manic Episode, Overdose, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Vomiting, anger issues, recovery fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-08-20 09:45:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16553459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He was always sohappy.The Batfamily is left reeling after Dick's suicide attempt.





	1. Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags. They are your trigger warning. This fic is GRAPHIC.

**And I couldn't tell my mother that I love her. I'm a bad son. This life is overwhelming, and I'm ready for the next one.**

**Dick**

Dark spots cloud his vision, a fuzzy sensation swam in his head. Was his apartment spinning or was it him? He couldn't remember anymore. Everything was muted and dark and he just wanted to close his eyes, but closing his eyes meant he wasn't opening them, and he couldn't say goodbye yet, not yet, not standing up. Lie down. Had to lie down. Get comfortable. Sleep.

When had he ended up on the living room couch? He didn't care. He was tired. So very, very tired. Just wanted to sleep but the world was spinning out of control and  _ I'm done. _ He lay down, head rested against the armrest of his cheap couch and stared up at the ceiling.

Just a few more minutes and he'd sleep. He'd sleep and not wake up and finally it was going to be all over.

_ He couldn't breathe. She was on top of him and he couldn't move and he was pinned down and he told her no and tried to push her away, but she wouldn't listen, and his suit was off, and he wanted it back on, and he wanted to fight her, but his body went slack and he couldn't breathe and she was on him and she was moving, and honestly what had he expected? This was all he was good for anyway. Everyone always said so... _

He pulled the throw blanket off the back of the couch and curled up under it, trying to will the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach away. Did he take enough? He was pretty sure. His phone was buzzing but he didn't want to answer it and... phone. Needed to tell someone. Needed to say goodbye.

The world was spinning faster when he reached for it, and he picked it up and scrolled through his contacts until he found her and listened to it ring, even though it seemed muted and far away and was he even really doing this? He wasn't sure anymore.

_ I don't want to do this. Please. It hurts. Stop. Stop. STOP. But he wasn't stopping, and he couldn't move and he tried to wish himself to be somewhere else, for the love of God, anywhere else and stop, please just stop. Make him stop... _

"Dick?" the voice greeted on the other end, and he wasn't even sure why he'd bothered calling Barbara in the first place because it wasn't like she was going to be able to do anything, and maybe that's why he'd called her after all. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said, voice dreamy, distant. There was a ringing in his ears, but he didn't care, and he tried to ignore it, and everything felt so heavy, and he just wanted to sleep... "Just wanted to hear your voice."

"Are you drunk?"

_ It was her. It was her. It was her... It had to have been her. Not a shape-shifter, not a stranger, had to be her. Had to be her. Had to be her. _

"'M fine. Just tired..."

"Dick, look, I'd love to chat, but there's trouble in Gotham and..."

"Yeah, yeah," Dick shut his eyes. Of course. Gotham was more important. Gotham was always more important to everyone. What did it matter what was going on with him? "Sorry I called."

"We can talk tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," Dick responded and listened as the call dropped.

Tomorrow.

He didn't want a tomorrow.

No more tomorrows.

_ Hands on his body and stop, stop, please stop... "That's right, Robin..." Stop. Stop. Didn't want to do this. Didn't want to. Said no... It hurt. Tried to be somewhere else, anywhere else, but he wasn't stopping, and he wasn't going to, and everything was on fire, and "Good boy..." _

_ "That's right, baby," she was on top of him, and he couldn't get her to move, and why couldn't he get her to move off of him and just leave him alone? And he was covered in blood that wasn't coming out, and he wanted it out, and Bruce was going to hate him, and he couldn't breathe, and he was cold, and he was wet, and it was raining, and he just wanted to go home... _

_ "I know how you breathe. I know how you move..." _ I'm sorry,  _ he wanted to say, wanted to scream, he didn't know it wasn't her. He thought it was her. Why wasn't it her? Why couldn't it have been her? He wanted it to be her. He thought it was her... He didn't know. He couldn't have known. Everything was falling apart. Why didn't she understand? Why couldn't she understand? _

He screwed his eyes shut and curled up on his side. Had he left a note? He didn't remember. He didn't want to remember. Maybe being able to remember all the bad things was what had caused everything to go to hell in the first place...

Something wet was on his face, and he couldn't breathe, and he just wanted to sleep. Sleep and not wake up. Go to sleep and everything was going to be fine, and he'd be fine, and everyone else would be better off in the long run anyway, right?

_ I'm sorry. _

_ I'm sorry. _

_ I'm sorry. _

Done. Done with everything and everyone and  _ Damian's never going to forgive you. _

_ He'll live. _

_ You won't. _

_ Good. _

_ That's right, baby... _

_ Do you like being alone, Dick? _

_ I know how you breathe... _

_ Do you want your friends to die, Robin? _

_ How dare you imagine Nightwing in such a position? _

_ Best ass in Gotham... _

Done. Done with everything and everyone, and he was done, and he was going, and neither heaven nor hell was going to bring him back.


	2. Each Damp Wrist

**I took my time. I hurried up. The choice was mine, I didn't think enough. I'm too depressed to go on. You'll be sorry when I'm gone.**

 

**Damian**

Grayson was never late opening the door.

Okay. So sometimes Grayson was late opening the door, but never this late, and Damian was left outside the apartment tapping his foot furiously. He always came over at the same time every Saturday. Why would this time be any different? Grayson should have been expecting him.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the key Grayson had given him. He fumbled with the lock, though he would never admit that. Damian Wayne did _not_ fumble, after all. He listened for the click, and pushed the door open.

The lights were off.

Odd. Grayson always left at least one light on, even when he was out. It was for safety reasons, Grayson had always said.

"Grayson?" he called as he stepped further into the kitchen, flipping the light switch on without breaking stride.

A form was asleep on the couch, and for a moment, Damian wondered if Todd had spent the night, as Todd was wont to do. Yes. That made sense. Todd must have spent the night, and Grayson wanted to give him some privacy when he woke after a long patrol...

But Grayson had missed patrol the night before. Oracle had said so, and Oracle knew everything there was to know about everyone...

Damian frowned when he pulled the blanket down and saw Grayson's sleeping form. Grayson never slept in the middle of the day. Never. So why today?

No. Something was wrong. Something had to be wrong. His breaths were too shallow, too infrequent...

Someone must have attacked him earlier in the afternoon to have put him in such a state.

He needed to call Oracle. Oracle would know what to do.

He reached for his cellphone and pressed the screen, listening to it ring.

"Damian?" Oracle’s  voice came across the other line. "Everything okay?"

"Someone must have harmed Grayson," Damian spoke, voice even. He was not worried. Damian did not worry. Grayson was just sleeping off whatever had happened. He would bounce back just like he always did, and everything was going to be fine, just like it always was.

"What do you mean?" Oracle asked, and Damian rolled his eyes. What did Oracle _think_ he meant?

"He is asleep and not responding. There does not appear to be anyone still in the vicinity..."

If Damian did not know any better, he would have sworn that Oracle had sworn on her end of the line.

"How does he look?"

Damian frowned and glanced Grayson over. Pale. Clammy... He relayed that information to Oracle.

“Is he on his side or on his back?"

"His back," Damian frowned. Grayson knew better than to fall asleep on his back if he had been doused with something. He would sleep on his side in case he became ill...

"Roll him onto his side," Oracle commanded, voice sounding more like they were in the field than on the phone.

Damian wasted no time moving Grayson from his back to his side. It was easier than it should have been, and Damian wondered when Grayson had become so light.

"Grayson?" Damian tried to shake the man's shoulder, but Grayson did not respond, not even a groan. Grayson had always been a light sleeper. Whatever had gotten him must have gotten him bad...

"Damian, listen to me," Oracle said, and Damian blinked and tried to pay attention to what Oracle was saying. "An ambulance is on its way to the apartment. I need you to wait outside."

"I am not waiting outside," Damian said firmly. He was not about to leave Grayson in such a vulnerable position, not when anyone could come in and harm him further. "I will not leave him."

Damian carefully moved over to Grayson's face and flipped an eyelid up, frowning when Grayson still failed to respond.

A sick feeling formed in the pit of his stomach.

Mother had told him what it was like, watching someone die. How the light left their eyes and the warmth slowly left their body. Damian had seen it often enough, how skin turned deathly pale and eyes clouded where brightness had once existed.

He never wanted to associate those things with Grayson.

He pressed two fingers against the inside of Grayson's wrist, finding comfort in the thump he felt there, even if it was barely there, even if it was getting weaker by the moment.

"Damian, this isn't up for debate."

"I am not leaving him."

He would track down whoever had done this to Grayson. He would track them down and destroy them himself.

He could hear the sirens approaching them, and he hoped beyond hope that they belonged to an ambulance full of medics who would take Grayson to the hospital where he could be brought back to the land of the living, where he could be safe and secure, and come back to Damian.

He did not wish to be in a world without Grayson.

Grayson was the only person who had ever believed in him, who had ever seen the good Damian knew he could possess if only the right people believed in him. Grayson had seen him not as a murderer or a demon spawn or a close relative of the Demon... Damian had never asked to be those things.

"Stay on the line," Oracle sighed, and Damian nodded despite knowing she could not see him.

He reluctantly moved away from Grayson only to give the medics (when had they arrived? Had Damian let them in?) better access to Grayson's unconscious form.

Grayson was going to be okay.

He had to be okay.

He had to.

**Alive, just open your eyes and see that life is beautiful. Would you swear on your life that no one will cry at my funeral?**

 

**Bruce**

The drive to Blüdhaven General took an hour on a good day. Bruce made it in under half the time by dodging every traffic light and nearly rear-ending some poor bastard who had gotten in his way.

"Don't do anything stupid," Barbara had told him over the phone. As if he'd planned on doing anything stupid. What did she think he was going to do? Go in there and grab Dick by his shirt-collar and beat some sense into him?

Much as he would have loved to do that, it wouldn't do any good. It wouldn't fix whatever the hell was broken.

But something had driven his eldest to the brink, and Bruce was determined to figure out what it was.

Was it the superheroics?

Was it the fight they'd had a few days prior?

Was it his fault?

No. Dick was strong. Dick was stronger than any and all of them combined, and Bruce knew it.

_"You okay?" Bruce asked Dick, who sat at the island of the manor's kitchen, pushing his cereal around with his spoon, playing with it more than eating it, a habit Bruce knew he'd only adopted recently._

_"Huh?" Dick jumped, and Bruce held his hands up. Dick had never been jumpy, not even as a kid. "Yeah, great," he said with a forced smile that didn't quite reach his eyes._

_"This about the apartment?" Bruce asked, and Dick just shrugged in response. "Don't worry. I'm sure they'll get it rebuilt in no time."_

"Father," Damian ran over to him, and Bruce jumped back in surprise when his son immediately wrapped his arms around his waist. Damian had never been one for hugging. "They are saying the most terrible things about Grayson, that he did this to himself..."

Bruce took a deep breath and shut his eyes, putting a hand on Damian's head. How the hell was he supposed to break it to his son that his hero, the person he cared about most in the world, was willing to leave him behind? "I'll talk to them," he decided before pulling away. Damian would be fine for a few more moments while Bruce got things situated with Dick's medical team.

He approached the nurse at the station, who glanced up at him as if he was bothering her by showing up to the counter. "Can I help you?"

"I'm here about my son, Richard Grayson," Bruce responded and drummed his fingers on the counter. Dick couldn't have done this. At least, Bruce wanted to believe that. Dick was strong, brave, stronger and braver than Bruce was... He wouldn't have done this to himself. He _couldn't_ have done this to himself.

"Let me check his HIPAA," the nurse responded, and Bruce watched her type, same bored expression on her face. Didn't she know this was one of the worst days of his life? His son was dying, could have already been dead, could have done this to himself... "Mr. Wayne?" she glanced up, and Bruce nodded. "Overdosed. They're pumping his stomach. He should be awake soon."

Bruce nodded and moved back to Damian, who had moved to sit in a chair with his back to the wall. God, Bruce could only imagine how awful it would have been for the boy to find Dick in that state...

 

"Damian?" he asked, clearing his throat, and watched as Damian perked up softly. "Let's take a walk."

"I do not wish to..."

"I'm not asking what you want," Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "Come on. We need to talk."

**What's in your head? What's in your head? Zombie. Zombie. Zombie.**

Damian

He followed Father through the Emergency Room waiting room and back outside to a less crowded parking lot, one not filled with flashing ambulances and people who looked like they were about to drop dead dragging themselves in through the doors.

Surely Father was going to tell him that the doctors and medics were all wrong. Grayson did not try to do this to himself. Grayson would never leave him, not willingly. He had  promised. 

He watched Father sit down on the curb, and Damian did not even think about how the loose concrete, dust, and dirt would ruin Father's expensive, custom suit as he took a seat next to the man. "Did you tell them to stop saying such terrible things about Grayson?" he asked hopefully. Everyone listened to Father. If he told the medical professionals to stop spreading such lies, they would.

He watched Father sigh and run a hand through his hair. "Damian, Dick overdosed..." he trailed off. Did Father think Damian was stupid? Damian could tell Grayson had overdosed on something. Anyone with half a brain could have seen that. They just needed to find the person responsible and bring them to justice and everything was going to be fine...

"I know that."

"Damian, he overdosed on purpose."

For a moment, Father looked so much older than he was. Father was lying. He had to be lying. Grayson would not do this to himself. He could not do this to himself.

He  promised.

But Father was not a liar, at least as far as Damian knew. And there had been nothing in Grayson's apartment to suggest a struggle, and there had been no way in but through the door or the balcony, and the balcony door had been closed, and...

"I know this is hard to hear," Father continued, and Damian shook his head and bit his lower lip even though he was not a child anymore and had no need to exhibit such  childish  behavior...

Grayson did not try to kill himself.

Grayson did not try to leave him.

He would not.

He could not.

Why would he?

"I'll talk to him as soon as he wakes up," Father continued, and Damian just shook his head. Father should not be allowed to contact Grayson when he was saying such terribly untrue things... “See what's going on," Father was still speaking, but Damian had tuned him out. How could Father listen to those terrible lies?

But he knew deep in the pit of his stomach that they were not lies. He knew deep in his stomach that Grayson had done this to himself, and he had known it as soon as he had seen Grayson's unconscious form on the couch in his apartment.

 

Grayson would have left him.

 

**'Cause if I stand up, I break my bones. Everyone loves to see it all unfold. Ain't nobody giving up 'cause nobody gives a fuck.**

 

**Bruce**

In all of his worst nightmares, he never imagined one of his children taking or trying to take their own life. In a way, it almost made it worse that it was Dick – happy, care-free Dick who loved life and everyone in it. Or at least Bruce had thought he did.

The talk with Damian had gone better than he expected it to, even if his youngest wasn't currently speaking to him and likely wouldn't for the foreseeable future.

Bruce waited outside Dick's room, trying to will himself to step inside. What the hell was he supposed to say in this situation? He didn't know. What could he say?

Why hadn't Dick just talked to him?

Had he tried to?

Bruce wished he could have kept the bad things from happening.

"Mr. Wayne?" a nurse asked as she emerged from the room. "Mr. Grayson will see you now."

He took a shaky breath and opened the door.

**And he gave himself an 'A' and a slash on each damp wrist because this time he didn't think he could make it to the kitchen.**

**Dick**

_Slade was pinning him against the wall, and he was struggling, but he couldn't break free. The man had a foot and a hundred pounds on him. It was stupid to try and fight and he knew it but he didn't care. "Please," he screwed his eyes shut. "I don't want to do this..."_

His head was pounding and his throat hurt when he woke up and— no.

No. No. No.

He wasn't supposed to wake up. He wasn't supposed to wake up ever again. So why the hell was he awake? Where was he? He tried to move but his hands were bound to something and he couldn't move...

_And he couldn't move and she was on top of him and he just went slack and he could've taken her in a fight, so why didn't he try?_

_"That's right, baby," she moaned as she moved her hips on him, and he wanted to scream, but no sounds were coming out, and no one could ever know what he'd done, what he'd let her do, and the gunshot was still ringing in his head, and he didn't want to do this._

_"No. Don’t touch me. I’m poison..."_

_"Quiet, mi amor..."_

"Mr. Grayson?" a voice asked, but he didn't hear who it was or where it was coming from, and he needed to pay more attention to his surroundings, and maybe if he would have paid more attention, he wouldn't have been in this position in the first place, and... "Mr. Grayson?"

He struggled against whatever the hell was keeping him down, wanting it to just be gone. And a bitter taste was forming in his mouth and he felt his stomach twisting into knots and he wasn't supposed to wake up. He wasn't. And who had found him? No, he didn't want to think about who would have found him.

He stared at the dark-haired nurse standing at his bedside, and all he could think was that everything was too sterile and too bright. He wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. He'd taken every precaution. And she was moving toward him, and he wanted to scream. God he wanted to scream.

He was restrained and she was there, and he had never felt more vulnerable.

"How are we feeling?" she asked as she checked his vitals, and he tried to flinch away from her touch but he couldn't when he was immobilized. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to will her away. Wanted her gone... Just wanted her gone. Somewhere else. Anywhere else. "You have a visitor, if you're up for it..."

He nodded without thinking, hoping it was the answer she wanted, and that if it was the answer she wanted she would go away and leave him alone and never come back.

When he saw Bruce walk into the room, though, he almost would have rather taken his chances with the nurse.

"Dick," Bruce greeted and cleared his throat before sitting down on the bed beside him. Honestly, could he have picked a worse place to sit? Could he have picked a worse time to come see him? Dick glared and clenched his teeth. There was no point in talking, not when he knew that Bruce wouldn't let him get a word in until he was finished. "You scared the hell out of us."

"Do you want me to apologize?" Dick questioned, voice icier than he intended it to be. He didn't owe anyone a damned thing, especially not Bruce. If it weren't for Bruce, he likely never would have been in this position in the first place.

He wished Bruce had never adopted him.

Bruce ignored the comment, not that Dick cared too much about it. "How are you feeling?"

"How the _fuck_ do you think I'm feeling?" Dick demanded, voice reaching a pitch he didn't know he was capable of. "I woke up, Bruce. So I'd say I'm feeling pretty shitty."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Bruce asked, and Dick shook his head. Why the hell would he want to talk about this? Especially with Bruce? He must have been more out of his mind than Dick was. "They want to put you on an involuntary psych hold," Bruce continued, and Dick felt his blood run cold. No, they couldn't keep him here. They couldn't... "I signed the paperwork to authorize it..."

"Fuck you," Dick shouted and struggled against the restraints on his wrists again, even though he knew they wouldn't budge and that he was stuck and that wasn't going to change any time soon. "Fuck you, Bruce. You can't do this. You can't keep me here. You can't let them keep me here..."

"It's for your own good, Dick," Bruce snapped, and Dick flinched away from him. "You need help. You need serious help that I can't give you, and we both know you're not going to get it on your own."

"Go to hell."

"When I got the call from Barbara, I thought I was already there."

Dick could feel the tears on his face, and he hated himself for him. The last thing he needed was for Bruce to think he was weak, that he couldn't handle this. He couldn't stay there. They couldn't keep him there. They couldn't.

"I hate you."

"You're saying that because you're angry," Bruce responded, and Dick wanted to punch him for that calm tone in his voice. Fuck Bruce. Fuck all of this. "And that's okay. You're allowed to feel  the way you do. But you're getting help whether you want it or not."

Dick shook his head and shut his eyes tightly. This wasn't happening. None of this was happening.

God, why was it happening?

He just wanted to go home.

**I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die and get back, back to you.**

**Bruce**

Sometimes it was easy to forget that Dick had once been the angriest of his kids. He'd adapted so well after becoming Robin and learned to keep his temper in check. Maybe if Bruce would have remembered that, they wouldn't be in the position they were in now, with Dick flex-cuffed to a hospital bed, being checked on by medical staff every fifteen minutes.

"You'll be staying with me when you come home," he spoke before leaving the room. His heart sank when he saw Damian sitting outside the door. He'd no doubt heard Dick shouting at Bruce. Bruce couldn't even begin to imagine what was going on in Damian's head. Dick had never lost control like this, especially not with Damian around. Granted, Dick would have had no way of knowing that Damian was sitting right outside the door.

"May I see him?" Damian asked, voice hopeful in a way that made Bruce’s stomach sink. No. It wouldn't be good for Dick and Damian to interact given the current circumstances.

It would only destroy Dick further if he knew that Damian had been the one to find him, and Bruce knew that he'd never forgive himself if that happened. If he let that happen. "You'll see him when he gets home."

"When is he getting home?" Damian demanded. Bruce sighed and tried to ignore his phone buzzing in his pocket. He still needed to call Tim and let him know what had happened. He didn't want to begin to imagine how that conversation was going to go. Tim was anxious and depressed on the best days. This could undo him.

"They're putting him on a seventy-two hour hold," Bruce answered.

" _Three days?"_ Damian demanded, and Bruce didn't even bother to correct him about his tone. The kid was angry and upset and confused, and he had every right to be. "May I _please_ see him before then?"

"It's not a good idea, Damian," Bruce responded and led him to the car, still waiting for Bruce where he'd parked it outside the ER. He didn't even care about the ticket stuck under his windshield wiper. Dick had been more important than worrying about parking laws. "He's in a bad state. It's not good for you to be around him like this."

"He needs me," Damian argued. Bruce nodded and unlocked the door, watching as Damian reluctantly got inside. "He needs me," the boy repeated.

"You'll be there for him when he comes home," Bruce answered as he climbed into the driver's seat. He hoped traffic wouldn't be too bad. He was exhausted and wanted to get home, even if he doubted he'd get any sleep while he couldn't keep an eye on his oldest son.

Damian sulked down in his seat, and Bruce ignored him as he threw the car into gear, focusing on the road before them.

"I need you to get Tim on the phone," he said to Damian, and watched as Damian glared for a second before pulling Bruce's phone out of the console and hitting the contact, handing the phone to him in a fluid motion.

"B?" Tim's voice came across on the other end. "Kind of a bad time. Can it wait?"

"I need you to come home," Bruce answered without missing a beat. “Dick's in the hospital."

"Wait, what?" Tim demanded. "What happened? Is he okay?"

"We'll talk more at the manor," Bruce responded before ending the call.Tim would worry himself sick between the tower and the manor. But it was a conversation they needed to have in person and not over the phone. He knew that. God, he knew that.

 _"Bruce, it's Barbara._ " _Something was horribly wrong. He knew it as soon as she started talking, voice panicked, not calm and collected as it usually was. Something bad had happened. Something worse than bad. But nothing could have prepared him for the words he heard next. "I think Dick tried to kill himself."_

The ride home was silent, and Bruce was more than grateful for it.


	3. When I'm Gone

**It's just past eight and I'm feeling young and reckless. The ribbon on my wrist says, "Do not open before Christmas.”**

**Tim**

The phone call had left him an anxious mess of a human being, more so than usual. 

Dick was in the hospital? Why? What had happened? Was he okay? Fuck, Bruce could have at least told him if Dick was okay or not. What the hell did Bruce think was going to be going through Tim's head as he made his way home to the manor?

He got there before Bruce did and paced back and forth in the foyer, despite Alfred's insistence that it was bad for his health and was only going to make things worse. 

Did Alfred know? Was Alfred keeping things from him too? The thought made his stomach churn even more.

Dick was in the hospital.

It had to have been a fight gone wrong. Dick hated hospitals.  _ Hated _ them. It must have been something really awful for him to agree to go to one.

He heard the front door open and his heart leaped in his chest. At least he was about to find out whatever the hell was going on. Right? He hoped so. Had to find out. Had to know for sure. Was Dick okay? Was he dying? Was he sick? Was he sick  _ and  _ dying?

"Damian, go upstairs," Bruce commanded, and Tim knew something had to have been horribly, horribly wrong if Damian didn't even try to argue it. The demon brat always wanted to know what was going on, always had to know what was going on in everyone else's life. "Tim, living room."

Tim nodded and followed Bruce to the living room. He sat on the couch without having to be told to. Dick must have been dead if Bruce was actually sitting him down. He wasn't a kid. He didn't need to be sat down... 

"What's going on, B? We were  _ this  _ close to solving a case..."

"Dick tried to kill himself."

Tim blinked and stared at Bruce.

No.

No, that wasn't possible.

Dick was the strongest person Tim knew. Dick could handle anything. He wouldn't leave them behind. He wouldn't leave everything he'd worked for behind. He was always so  _ happy _ . Bruce must have had the facts wrong. Bruce  _ had  _ to have the facts wrong.

"What?" he asked stupidly, hating how dumbstruck he sounded, hating how dumbstruck he  _ felt _ . It was his job to see things, to notice things other people didn't. How could he have missed something so major? How could he have? It wasn't like him.

This was his fault. He should have paid more attention. He should have seen what was going on...

"Damian found him overdosing," Bruce sighed and fell into the armchair across from the couch Tim was sitting on.

Tim couldn't remember the last time Bruce looked so tired, so old...

"Why would he do that?" Tim demanded.

"I don't know," Bruce sighed. How could he not know? Bruce was supposed to know everything. He always knew everything... "I'm going over to his apartment to look for a note after I get some sleep." Tim perked up at that. He could help. He could do something useful. He could catch things Bruce didn't.... "You aren't going," Bruce said firmly, and judging by the tone he used, Tim knew it wasn't up for debate. "Did he say anything to you?"

Tim shook his head. No, he definitely would have remembered if Dick had said anything out of the ordinary, if he had acted out of the ordinary. He would have caught it... Right? "I mean, no offense, Bruce, but you don't see a lot..."

"So you do know something?" Bruce asked, and Tim shook his head. God, he wished he could have seen this coming. Wished he could have prevented it. He should have been able to prevent it, right? "I can't imagine how hard it is for you to hear this. I understand if you need a minute alone."

"I'm fine," Tim lied because he knew that was the answer he was supposed to give, the answer Bruce wanted.

How many times had Dick told them he was fine for the same reason?

He didn't want to think about it. Couldn't let himself think about it.

"This wasn't your fault, okay?" Bruce asked, and Tim just nodded and stared at the floor, wondering when Alfred had found time to polish the hardwood surface.

He wished he could believe it wasn't his fault.

**So hum "Hallelujah" just off the key of reason. I thought I loved you. It was just how you looked in the light. A teenage vow in a parking lot, “'Til tonight do us part." I sing the blues and swallow them too.**

 

**Damian**

It wasn't fair. Father was not telling him anything. Father would not let him see Grayson. Did Father not realize that Grayson needed him? That Grayson had always needed him? And they were just going to leave him in that awful hospital with those awful people who said the awful things that Damian did not wish to believe about Grayson?

He thought about running off and going back to Bludhaven General on his own. Grayson needed him, and it was his responsibility to be there for him. Was it not?

Grayson had always been there for him. It was time to return the favor. Was it not?

He lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling, watching the fan spin in slow circles above his head. 

_ Grayson would have left him.  _ Why? What could be so wrong that Grayson would willingly leave him behind? Grayson had always told Damian how important he was, how much he cared... If he cared, why would he do this?

How could he do this?

Damian needed him. Damian needed him more than he needed anyone or anything else on the planet. And maybe it was selfish that he wanted to keep Grayson around, keep Grayson with him, but he did not care.

Grayson was the only person who had ever believed in Damian, and sometimes Damian wondered if Grayson was the only person who ever would.

Grayson was  _ his  _ Batman.

Batman could not fall. 

It went against the very laws of the universe.

Grayson was the happiest person Damian knew, always had been. It had infuriated him in the beginning, but he had grown to depend on the stability of Grayson's happiness, of his constant glow that lit up every single room he walked into.

And Grayson had to have known Damian would be the one to find him. He had to have known. Was Grayson secretly so cruel as to allow Damian to live with that trauma for the rest of his life?

No.

Cruel was not a word Damian would have ever associated with Grayson

So why?

He shut his eyes, knowing some sleep would do his body and mind good. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw Grayson lying limp on his couch, saw his eyes gazing without seeing.

He had started vomiting shortly before the medics arrived, and Damian had been convinced for a moment, for a terrible, awful moment, that Grayson was actually going to die, and that Grayson was going to die in front of him.

Damian was not sure he could ever forgive Grayson if that happened.

He wished he could get back to Grayson, open the door, and ask him  _ why. _

**I'm just gonna let my life bleed on this letter, let my song sing on forever. I'll still love you when I'm gone.**

**Tim**

He knew better than to go against Bruce. There was going to be hell to pay for sneaking out of the Manor and going all the way to Blüdhaven, and he knew it. But he needed to see what he could find. Bruce had a code that wouldn't let him go through most of Dick's things. But Tim? 

Well. 

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

**_August 15, 2017_ **

_ Thought I saw him today, didn't want to see him. Lots of energy. Haven't slept properly in days, but feel great. Met with the Titans, they all seemed in good spirits. We're so close to solving a case and then we can find another one and work on that one too and it's amazing what you can accomplish when you can't sleep. _

_ Took on second shift at work, they needed someone, and I figured it wasn't like I was going to sleep anyway, so I volunteered, and now I'm working three different cases on top of the beat, and I can handle this. I can handle this. I got this. _

_ There was so much blood in the case last night, but that's normal. God though, it was everywhere, and there was a kid screaming, and I can't do this anymore, and the kid reminded me of me when they fell and they fell hard and there was a crack and I was screaming but no one was listening and he cut the ropes but no one saw and right, blood. _

_ I need to call Kori. Want to talk to her. Need to talk to her. Need to talk to her RIGHT NOW. It's been three years since the mishap and I need to hear her voice and need to know that everything's okay and need to give her a piece of my mind because I didn't know it wasn't her and I couldn't have known that it wasn't her, and how the hell was I supposed to know that it wasn't her? _

**_August 19, 2017_ **

_ Hard to get out of bed. _

**_August 25, 2017_ **

_ Had a fight with B today. I hate this. I hate everyone. _

**_September 1, 2017_ **

_ Can't stay focused on anything. Almost got Arsenal killed in the field today. My fault. Always my fault. Why can't I do anything right? It would have been my fault if he died, if any of them died, but I kept getting distracted, and I couldn't help it and... _

He closed the journal, not wanting to read further, not needing to read further. Dick had been spiraling. Had been spiraling for months, and none of them had seen it, had realized. Had Tim even bothered to ask if Dick was okay? Had Tim ever asked if Dick was okay?

Tim rummaged through the shelf he'd found the journal on, wondering if he could find anything else. Did he really want to find anything else? A loose piece of paper fell out of a notebook he was handling, and he paused a moment before picking it up carefully, as if it were something fragile that would break if he was too rough with it.

**_October 25, 2014_ **

_ It wasn't her. _

What did it mean? Tim wasn't sure. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what it meant. He checked the time on the alarm clock sitting by Dick's bed and swore. He only had an hour to get home, lest he face the combined wrath of Bruce and Alfred. They'd be worried sick if they woke to find Tim missing.

He couldn't let them worry about two kids at once. 

**And the worst part is before it gets any better we’re headed for a cliff. And in the free-fall I will realize I’m better off when I hit the bottom.**

**Barbara**

It was her job to know things. It was her job to know who was in trouble and when and why and where. 

So why hadn't she seen it coming? She should have seen it coming.

But he was always so damn happy. He was always looking out for everyone else, and maybe, in the end, that was why he’d tried it. He was too busy looking after everyone else that he’d let himself slip through the cracks. 

_ You should have known what was going on when he called.  _ The thought haunted her every minute of the past two days. She had written it off as a bad night, promised to talk to him the next day. How could she have known what was going on? 

"How are you doing?" Barbara asked Tim as she made her way from the manor's foyer to the living room. She hadn't gotten the chance to speak to anyone other than Bruce since the... incident. She had no doubts in her mind that Damian was a wreck, even if he'd try to hide it. But Tim was always harder to read.

Why did he have to be so damn good at hiding things from everyone?

Tim shrugged and plopped down in one of the armchairs. Barbara sighed and ran a hand through her hair. What the hell was she supposed to say to the teen? What could she say? One of Tim's idols had nearly died at his own hand. "Heard anything from the hospital?"

"You know he won't tell me anything," Tim responded, voice cold in a way that Barbara rarely heard it. "I went to the apartment."

"You shouldn't have done that..."

"I had to," Tim sighed and pulled a knee to his chest, and Barbara decided to let the argument drop. Tim was stubborn as a mule on a good day. There'd be no talking him out of something he'd made his mind up on.

"Find anything?"

"A few journal entries that made no sense," Tim answered.

"Did you show Bruce?" Barbara asked. She wanted to yell at him that Dick's journal was none of his business, but it wouldn't do any good when Tim had already read it. The best she could do was damage control, and hope that Dick never found out when he came home the next day. If they didn't get a judge to extend the hold.

Tim shook his head, and Barbara let out a breath. "Good," she nodded. "Probably shouldn't. I'm sure he's beating himself up enough."

Weren't they all?

"What do we even do when he comes home?" Tim asked suddenly, and Barbara glanced over at him. Sometimes it was easy to forget how young Tim was. How young all of them were. Tim may have tried to act tough and like he had it all together, but Barbara knew that deep down he was just as scared and confused as the rest of them were. Maybe even more.

"I don't know, Tim," she answered, hating that it was the best answer she could give. "I don't know."

**I'm sleeping my way out of this one with anyone who will lie down. I keep on fixating on one star while the world keeps crashing down.**

**Bruce**

There had to have been something he missed. There had to be. Something he overlooked, something he wrote off as stress or hormones or Dick just being young... There had to be  _ something. _

The apartment hadn't turned up with anything, and so he found himself sitting in front of the Batcomputer, wondering if any of Nightwing's files would show anything.

Most of it was routine, rogue galleries, vital stat records...  _ Blockbuster. _ Bruce frowned when he saw that file. That case had damn near destroyed Dick. But it was weeks ago. Bruce had thought Dick was over it. His apartment had been rebuilt and everything seemed fine, normal...

He clicked on the file and swore when he saw it was encrypted. Not too much of a problem. Dick never had been the best at encrypting his files.

**_Secret Identity: Compromised_ **

**_Vital Signs: CRITICAL_ **

Bruce frowned when he saw an audio file buried under yet another layer of encryption. Why did Dick even bother uploading the data if he was trying to make it disappear? Was it a secret cry for help? What the hell had happened?

_ “I killed him.”  _ Bruce frowned when he heard his eldest’s voice coming across the speakers, distant, muted as if he was in shock. 

_ “No, I did.”  _ A familiar female voice. Where had he heard it before?

_ “That’s right, baby…” _

_ “No. Don’t touch me. I’m poison.” _

_ “Quiet, mi amor…” _

He felt his blood boil in his veins and gritted his teeth when he remembered where he knew the voice from. Tarantula. He should have known better than to trust her. He never should have agreed to let Dick train her. 

He didn’t need video to piece together what had happened.

_ Why didn’t you say anything? _

Why hadn't he caught it? He should have caught it. Dick had been off since his apartment had been blown up. Who wouldn't be? Why didn't Bruce press further? He should have pressed further.

He hit replay on the audio track, knowing he shouldn't.

_ "No. Don't touch me. I'm poison..." _

"What are you doing?" Bruce jumped when he heard a female voice behind him. He needed to keep his head clear. Distraction could get him and the others hurt. Could get the others hurt  _ again... _

"Going through his files," he answered without bothering to face Barbara. He listened as she moved over to the computer. "He tried to encrypt them..."

"Then maybe you shouldn't be going through them," Barbara responded, and Bruce just shook his head. The files were on  _ his  _ computer. His son had just tried to kill himself. He had every right to that data.

"What happened to Tarantula?"

"Left town. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," Bruce shook his head. Dick was definitely not going back home after he was discharged, that much was certain. Bruce wanted him far away from that woman, far away from Bludhaven.

He never should have left Dick leave Gotham.

_ He's an adult. He can do what he wants. _

"He called me," Barbara said, and Bruce blinked and looked over at her. "When he was... He called me. I thought he was drunk and hung up on him. He could've died and..."

Bruce sighed and took her hand, squeezing it. "You didn't know."  _ None of us could have known. _

_ We all should have known. _


	4. Slow Fade

**The cutting part was easy, but regretting it is so fucked.**

**Dick**

He got into the car without so much as a word. Bruce should have known better than to come pick him up himself. But why wouldn't Bruce come pick him up himself? He was a flight risk, after all. Three days of involuntary commitment and he was heading back to the manor. He almost preferred to take his chances with an extended hold.

"How are you feeling?" Bruce asked him, and Dick just stared straight ahead. 

Bruce didn't deserve answers. None of them did.

He watched Bruce sigh and put the car into gear before slumping down in his seat and leaning against the car door.  _ And how are we feeling, Mr. Grayson?  _ If he heard those words one more time he was going to scream.

_ How the hell do you think I feel? _

"There are going to have to be some ground rules, given the circumstances..." Bruce continued. Was he fucking kidding Dick? He didn't need rules. He wasn't a child anymore. "Someone will be keeping an eye on you most of the time. No sharp objects. No weapons. I sent Jason to change the code to your gun safe in your apartment..."

"I need that for work," Dick glared.

"You'll be taking a leave of absence."

"You can't do that!" He needed things to return to normal. The absolute last thing he needed was for his coworkers to know something was up.  _ Like they don't already.  _ His sergeant had told him to take all the time he needed.

He didn't want to take any more time.

"It's not up for debate," Bruce said, voice stern, and Dick wanted to snap at him. Not up for discussion? He was a grown man, not some stupid kid... "Nightwing's benched."

Dick gritted his teeth to keep from saying something he'd regret. He should have known Bruce would take away the only things that made his life worth living, the only outlets he had.

"Is there anything you want to tell me?" Bruce continued, and Dick rolled his eyes. They'd never talked before. Why start now?

"I hope the fucking car crashes."

"That's not funny, Dick."

"It wasn't supposed to be."

"I need you to help us help you, Dick. We aren't your enemy here," Bruce sighed.

Dick shook his head and stared at the window, watching the freeway pass by. The drive to the Manor from Blüdhaven General took an hour on a good day. God, he hoped it was going to be a good traffic day. "I don't have to do anything."

"You're wrong there," Bruce retorted, a hint of anger in his voice that made Dick want nothing more than to punch him.  _ He  _ was the angry one? What right did he have to be angry? "You have to get better because my son is not going to find you like that ever again, do you understand me?"

Dick felt the blood run cold.

Damian wasn't supposed to be the one to find him.

God, everything was so fucked.

"I can't lose another son, Dick," Bruce sighed again, and Dick watched his grip tighten on the wheel. "Call it selfish because it is. I can't lose you."

"I wish he would have left me."

Why was that so damn hard for the others to understand? Dick hadn't been crying out for attention. He wasn’t asking for help. He wanted to die, and they just wouldn’t let him.  _ Can’t even kill yourself properly. _

Why couldn’t they just  _ let him go _ ?

**Hey editor, I'm undeniable. Hey doctor, I'm certifiable.**

**Bruce**

Sometimes, more often than he’d care to admit to, Bruce couldn’t help but think that both becoming and acting as Batman was easier than raising sons. 

He wished Dick would stop fighting him and see that Bruce was just trying to help. He was always trying to help. It’s all he’d ever wanted to do. Wasn’t it?

He hadn't told the JLA. Maybe he should have. But the last thing he needed was for the League to get involved in family business. Plus he doubted they’d ever trust Nightwing to patrol after his little stunt. No, it was better that they didn’t know and never found out. 

Still, Dick’s friends would be worried. He hadn't had his phone in the hospital, and they wouldn’t have heard from him in days.

He absolutely hated the words that came out of his mouth. “Maybe you should call Roy.” 

Ollie’s boy had had troubles. Everyone knew it. Bruce hadn't wanted his kids hanging around the boy for that very reason. But maybe Roy would be good for Dick in this situation. He couldn’t hurt… right?

“I don’t want to,” Dick muttered. 

Since when did he not want to talk to his friends? The thought made Bruce sick to his stomach. How had they not noticed him withdrawing so much?  _ Father of the year. _

He pulled into the manor and put the car in park before killing the ignition. 

“I need something to work with,” he turned to face Dick, who still hadn't moved from the slumped position he’d taken on when he’d gotten into the car. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me how.”

“I don’t want help.” Dick glared and got out of the car, slamming it behind him. 

Bruce crossed his arms and watched as Dick made his way inside the manor.  _ Where the hell did I go wrong?  _ He sat in the car a few moments longer and took a deep breath, trying to collect himself, before stepping out.  _ You can't lose your temper. It'll drive him further away. _

_ I don't want help.  _ The words echoed in his head as he headed inside, glad to see that, for the moment at least, he was alone.  _ But where the hell did Dick go?  _ No. If Alfred wasn't there to greet him, it meant he'd gotten to Dick before he could do anything stupid. He made a mental note to have the butler lock all the medicine cabinets and keep the knives and scissors under a watchful eye. If Dick had tried it once, he'd try it again.

_ No. Don't touch me. I'm poison. _

How had he not known?  _ You couldn't have known.  _ He should have known. It was his job to know things, for Christ's sake. And he'd given his approval for Nightwing to train Tarantula... What else had Dick kept him in the dark over?

**Be careful, little eyes, what you see. It's the second glance that ties the hands as darkness pulls the strings.  
**

**Damian**

It amazed him, how quickly everything could change. All it had taken was a moment. Less than that. One minute, Grayson had been happy and full of life. And the next he had been overdosing in his Bludhaven apartment.

One minute, Damian had felt completely comfortable around Grayson, that he knew everything there was to know about the next. And in the next moment? Grayson was a complete stranger, someone he did not know at all.

Father and Pennyworth had warned Damian that things would be different when Grayson returned home, but Damian had not expected Grayson to be so… cold.

He tried to greet Grayson when the older man walked through the door, but Grayson had blown him off and gone straight upstairs, and Damian had been left completely dumbfounded. Grayson had never ignored him. Never.

It was not fair.

Grayson hated him. Grayson had to hate him.

Because Grayson had wanted to die, and Damian had taken that away from him.

Damian watched as Father entered the manor several moments after Grayson. He started to speak, but Father held up a hand to silence him. “Not now, Damian.” Damian watched as Father retreated further into the manor, leaving Damian behind.

Damian retreated to his own room and shut the door behind him. If the rest of them wanted to ignore him, well, he could play that game too. It may have been childish, but he did not care. 

He tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw Grayson’s body, pale and cold and so very, very still. 

_ He is asleep and not responding. _

He had finally gotten to a point where he was able to so much as consider sleeping when he heard the argument coming from down the hall.

Damian was no stranger to shouting. When one lived with a man as temperamental as Father, and in as close proximity to men with such a temper as Grayson and Todd, yelling was to be expected. Silence was the thing that had always scared him.

"No, fuck you, Bruce!" Damian shut his eyes tighter when he heard Grayson shouting. Grayson was always in control of a situation, or at least he always had been before...  _ Not moving. Barely breathing... _

He rolled onto his side and pushed his pillow against his ear, trying to drown it out. He did not like this stranger who had taken over Grayson's body. He wanted  _ his  _ Grayson back.

His moment of temporary peace was broken all too soon when his door creaked open.

Damian groaned and threw the pillow to the side before sitting up and crossing his arms. Drake knew better than to disturb Damian when his door was shut. So why was he here?

"You okay?" Drake asked, and Damian rolled his eyes. He had found Grayson nearly dead less than a week prior. Now Grayson was home and acting like some stranger Damian had no intention of getting to know. "Can I come in?"

Damian huffed, but nodded. The last person he wished to spend time with was Drake, but Grayson was concerned with his own business, and Father and Pennyworth were too busy worrying about Grayson to worry about anything else.

So. Drake it was.

"Did he say anything to you?" Drake asked, and Damian stared. Did Drake truly believe that Damian would have been so stupid so as not to say anything if he had any sort of inclination as to what Grayson was going to do?

"Did he say anything to  _ you _ ?" Damian countered.

_ Did he even try to? _

**Uninstall. Uninstall. And it makes me want to end it all with my own hands. Is it wrong? Surely it's all right to want to uninstall.**

**Tim**

He'd heard the shouting all the way down in the living room, and he knew better than to eavesdrop, no matter how badly he wanted to, how badly he thought he needed to. But Dick was hurting, and betraying his trust wasn't going to make things any better. But... If he happened to be in Damian's room and happened to overhear what was going on? Well. That was a different story.

Dick was supposed to be the strongest. The best. They'd all looked up to him and idolized him.

Humans were flawed. Tim knew that much. And rationally, Tim knew that Dick was human. That Dick was flawed. But he hadn't wanted to believe it, at least not until he was forced to.

Because what the hell were you supposed to do when your idol was  _ broken _ ?

"He didn't tell me anything," Tim sighed and sat cross-legged on the end of Damian's bed. At least, he was fairly certain that Dick hadn't said anything. Tim would have picked up on it if he had... Right?

"This isn't up for debate, Dick." Tim could hear Bruce's voice, clear and firm and authoritative from down the hall.

Maybe they should have kept him in the psych ward longer.

"I read his journal," Tim admitted after a long moment of silence between him and Damian.

"You what?" Damian demanded, and Tim felt his stomach drop. He'd crossed a line. Dick had hidden those notebooks away for a reason, and Tim had gone and thumbed through them anyway.

Dick would never forgive him when he found out. And he  _ would  _ find out. Tim would slip up eventually, say something he could have only known from reading those pages... But he had had to know what had happened, what had driven Dick to this.

Dick was above all the 'being human' shit. Wasn't he?

“I needed to know,” Tim lay down and stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t expect Damian to understand. Because, when it came down to it, trust was everything to Damian. And Tim had definitely betrayed Dick’s trust in going through his things, and Tim just hoped to whatever God might have been out there that Damian wouldn’t tell Dick. At least not until he was more stable. 

Tim was prepared for Damian to yell at him. To kick him out and tell him to stay the hell away from Dick and the others.

He wasn’t prepared for the question, the one they’d all been asking themselves, and the one they were all too afraid to ask Dick. “So why did he do it?”

Tim shook his head, still refusing to look at Damian. The journals had caused more questions than answers. Something had happened to Dick. Something bad. Something that had ripped his spirit out and stomped on all the tiny, fragile pieces. 

“He was hurting,” Tim answered carefully. Because who the hell was he to try and understand Dick’s reasoning? Who the hell was he to speak for someone he didn’t even know anymore? “Something must have happened. Something bad that he didn’t want to tell us about.” And why the hell would Dick keep them in the dark about whatever had happened?

Didn’t he trust them?

They could have helped him.

This could have been prevented.

Why the hell hadn't they seen anything?

The silence fell between them like an iron curtain, and Tim didn’t need Damian to say anything to know it was time to leave. “You, uh, know where to find me,” he said as he stood up, clicking the door shut behind him.

**I’m elated, medicated. God knows I’ve tried to find a way to run away.**

**Dick**

Whatever the hell they’d put him on was strong. He’d spent most of his time in the psych ward sleeping, the rest of it so drugged up he could barely process what was going on around it, and he hated it, and it scared the hell out of him because he needed to be in control. He needed to be aware. Why was it so damn hard for the others to understand that?

He’d lied his way out of the ward, told them he was fine (even though he was the farthest from ‘fine’ he’d ever been in his life) and that he wasn’t planning on actively hurting himself anymore.

But when he searched through his old room at the Manor for something, for  _ anything,  _ he was forced to remember he was staying with the World’s Greatest Detective, who happened to be the most infuriatingly thorough man he’d ever encountered.

He’d even thought to take the damned drawstrings out of his sweats and hoodies.

The discharge instructions had been crystal clear, no room for interpretation, no room for loopholes.

He wondered what the point in discharging him was if he was just going to have to spend all day there, five days a week, doing the same damn things the ones who couldn’t leave were doing. Lying to a group of people who were supposed to understand him. Sitting in silence while some stranger with some fancy piece of paper pretended to know him better than he knew himself. Making stupid pictures with shitty off-brand crayons that were supposed to help his unconscious free itself, whatever the hell that was even supposed to mean.

_ You’ve been through some horrific things, Dick,  _ the therapist on his team had said in that fake caring voice they all seemed to have. Please. She didn’t know the half of it, and he had zero intention of enlightening her.

He’d made a scene when they’d brought him in and the doors had locked shut behind him. He was told there had been screaming, that he had resisted, but either wa it had landed him so drugged up he’d forgotten his own damned name.

He barely glanced up when Alfred showed up in his room with a cup of Greek yogurt snd three little pills. Anti-depressant? Check. Anti-anxiety? Check. Anti-psychotic? Check. 

He hated the meds, hated them more than he hated just about anything. All they did was make him sick, and he was certain he’d gained weight over the past week even though he was eating less than he’d eaten in years. “How are you feeling, Master Dick?” Alfred asked as he handed Dick the three pills (his exact dosage and not a bit more) and a glass of water to chase them down with.

He knew better than to pretend to take them. Alfred knew all, and he’d sit there and wait until Dick complied.

He dry-swallowed the pills and set the glass of water on his nightstand, not bothering to take so much as a sip of it. Alfred tried to hand him the yogurt, but Dick wouldnt’ take it. “I’m not hungry.”

“You have not eaten all day,” Alfred responded in a tone taht suggested Dick wouldnt’ be left alone until he at least tried to make an effort. Dick sighed and took the cup, reluctantly eating a spoonful of the yogurt. 

Dick watched as Alfred took a seat on the edge of his bed, and Dick subconsciously moved away from him. “My orchids are blooming,” Alfred commented, and Dick just nodded. The last thing he wanted to do was make uncomfortable small talk.

He just wanted to lie down and sleep for the rest of his life.

“They are doing quite well this year,” Alfred continued. “Quite well indeed. I believe the weather may allow for a full garden this season.” 

Dick nodded and finished the rest of his yogurt, setting the empty cup down beside the glass of water he head yet to touch.

Like hell was he drinking anything he hadn't seen made, even though he knew Alfred or Bruce or the others would never do anything to hurt him.

Alfred sat with him a moment longer before standing and collecting the empty yogurt cup and the full glass of water (did Alfred think Dick would try to drown himself with it?) before putting a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “I am confident you will speak to us when you feel you are ready,” he spoke, voice even, calm, just like it always was. Once, Dick would have found comfort in it. But now? He just wanted to be left alone. “For what it is worth, Master Dick,” Alfred continued and squeezed Dick’s shoulder affectionately. “I am grateful you are still with us.”

Dick watched as Alfred left the room, leaving the door cracked open behind him. Bruce had made it abundantly clear Dick was to not have it completely closed, or, God forbid, locked, under absolutely any circumstances.

Alfred’s words echoed in his head. ‘I am grateful you are still with us.’

_ That makes one of us. _


	5. Bother

**Sometimes solutions aren’t so simple. Sometimes goodbye’s the only way.**

**Dick**

It almost made him sick, how similar every damn waiting room seemed to be, at least when it came to therapists and psychiatrists and social workers and every other damn person he’d had to deal with since Damian had found him. Calming colors (no red), outdated, plush furniture (no sharp corners), pens chained to the receptionist’s desk, and a white noise machine hidden behind some random plant (nothing with branches).

“Would you like some water?” the receptionist asked, the first question that had been directed toward Dick since he and Bruce had arrived at the damned place. Inner Peace Counseling Alternatives. Could they have picked a stupider name? He doubted it.

It was a loaded question.

If he accepted the water, then maybe he actually knew how to take care of himself and didn’t need to be there in the first place.

If he declined the water, he was obviously still suicidal, and maybe nothing could be done to help him.

He ended up taking the water, a miniature sized bottle that he left sealed and next to him and didn’t even bother taking a second glance out.

He sat down with the clipboard and the pen chained to it and took a seat on a couch that was probably older than he was, shifting so he didn’t have to look at Bruce as he wrote, hoping Bruce wouldn’t look over his shoulder. 

Couldn’t the psych ward have just sent their copies over? It wasn’t like the questions were any different.

_ Have you previously received any type of mental health services? Yes _

_ Are you currently taking any medications? Lexapro, 10 mg. Buspar, 20 mg / 3 day. Valium, 10 mg / as needed. _

_ How would you rate your current physical health? Good _

_ How would you rate your current sleeping habits? Poor _

_ Are you feeling suicidal? _

He paused and stared at the question, a loaded one. Answer yes, and he’d end up right back in a locked hospital ward. Answer no, and his therapist would label him a liar before they even met face to face.

_ Are you feeling suicidal? _

_ Ye… No. _

_ Do you drink? No _

_ Do you use tobacco? No _

_ Do you use drugs? Prescription _

_ Do you self-harm? _

He took a shaky breath and glanced over his shoulder. Bruce seemed occupied enough with whatever business magazine he’d brought with him. Dick had said he didn’t need to be there anyway. Bruce had said he didn’t trust Dick to ditch the appointment and just show back up at the building in an hour.

_ Do you self-harm? _

_ Yes. _

Dick stood and surrendered the clipboard to the receptionist, getting a forced smile and a ‘we’ll be with you shortly,’ that was way too enthusiastic to be genuine. He started to head back to the couch, but hesitated. Whether he liked it or not, he was going to have to go to this appointment. He’d made his peace with that. But that didn’t mean he had to cooperate.

He could feel Bruce’s eyes boring into him, almost challenging him to do something stupid. 

He took a seat in one of the chairs against the adjacent wall and folded his arms, staring up at the ceiling.

“Richard?” he turned and was greeted by an older woman, maybe in her sixties, probably at this for a long time. “Let’s head upstairs.”

He sighed and stood, shooting a death glare at Bruce before following.

He had never seen the point in therapy. What was the point in talking when they both knew he was going to lie? He didn’t need her help. He didn’t want it. Especially not when Bruce was the one forcing it on him. He didn’t want to get better.

He wanted to die.

And Damian had taken that away from him.

He couldn’t even remember most of what had happened as he walked back down the stairs. She had asked him the same questions his therapist at the hospital had, and his answers had barely changed. Was he suicidal?  _ Yes.  _ Did he tell her that? No. Why would he? It would just get him locked away again.

“How’d it go?” Bruce asked, standing to greet Dick.

Dick shot him a death glare and stormed out of the office, not wanting to spend any more time there than was absolutely necessary.

“How long are we going to keep doing this, Dick?” Bruce had sighed as he slid into the driver’s seat.

How long were they going to keep doing this? Dick almost laughed. Had it been up to him, they wouldn’t be in this position in the first place. By now, they would have buried him and moved on with their lives. Hell. By now, they probably would have forgotten all about him.

He didn’t bother answering.

The bastard didn’t deserve an explanation.

**And in the morning, I’ll be with you, but it’ll be a different kind, ‘cause I’ll be holding all the tickets, and you’ll be owing all the fines.**

**Damian**

Avoiding Grayson had seemed the only logical solution, at least in the first few days he had been home. But living in the same space, however big a space it was, had drawbacks. At least Grayson had seemed determined enough to avoid Damian as well.

Truth be told, Damian was unsure how he would react to seeing Grayson again. Father had tried to get him to speak to someone, but Damian had pressed against it. What would he say? 

People made stupid choices. He knew that long before he had become Robin. People made stupid choices. People did things that others did not understand. People got hurt. People died. It was a fact of life, and one that Damian figured was best earned early on.

He wanted to hate Grayson. 

More than anything on this earth, he wanted to hate Grayson. Because hating him would make this all easier. Hating him would mean that he could handle the look of contempt Grayson shot him each time they passed in the Manor’s halls. Hating him would mean he could handle the silence, the coldness that he had never once associated with the man before any of this had happened.

And Damian hated that he could not hate Grayson, that he would never be able to hate Grayson.

He was sat in the living room when he heard the car pull up to the drive. If he was quick, he could make it to his room and act like he had never left. He could avoid seeing Grayson and avoid hearing most of the heated argument he knew Grayson and Father would still be having as they entered the door.

Mother had told him only cowards ran.

Damian was done acting as a coward.

He heard the door force open. Grayson, then, must have been the one to reach it first. It was unnatural how quickly the atmosphere within the Manor walls had turned from comfortable and calm to tense and aggressive. 

He could hear shouting, though he could not quite make out the words. He was not sure he wished to be able to make out the words. Because each time Grayson and Father spoke as of late, the exchanes were heated. Feelings were hurt. Egos were bruised. And Damian sincerely hoped that it would all blow over. That Grayson would go back to his old self. That things would calm down and he would no longer feel trapped in a battle he had not willingly entered into.

It was not his fault that Grayson had tried to end his own life.

That was what Father and Pennyworth and the others kept telling him. It was not his fault that he had been the one to find him, pale and half-dead.

But Damian knew Grayson blamed him for Grayson staying alive.

He heard footsteps approach the archway separating the living area from the rest of the rooms and turned to see Grayson round the corner. He watched as Grayson took two, three steps inside before directing his gaze directly at Damian.

In the past, Grayson had always looked at Damian with care and concern. Grayson had been the one to see the good in Damian that no one else seemed able to. Grayson had taken him in when Father had been… away.

But the look Grayson gave him in that instant was ice cold and full of a hatred Damian had never dreamed Grayson capable of.

“Are you happy?” Grayson had questioned with a laugh devoid of any joy or humor, and for a moment, Damian had frozen.

Grayson had not spoken to him directly in weeks.

He had expected an apology, perhaps, that Damian had been forced to see Grayson in such a state. That Grayson had put his family and friends through this absolute hell.

He did not doubt Grayson was trying to provoke him, to push him away. Hurt people hurt people. They pushed everyone in their life away until there was no one left, and Damian was not about to let Grayson do that to himself, however much he wanted to scream and shout back at him. 

It would have been so much easier to scream and shout and fight back.

“I’m here. I’m breathing. And I’m fucking miserable. Are you happy now?”

“Dick,” Damian glanced into the doorway, wondering when Father had arrived, wondering how much Father had overheard. “Enough.”

“Go to hell,” Grayson had snapped, and Damian watched as he left anyway.

**Wish I’d died instead of lived. A zombie hides my face. Shell forgotten with its memories, diaries left with cryptic entries.**

**Bruce**

There had been a time that Bruce had fully believed that problems people had were a direct result of poor parenting. It had been easy to judge the parents of criminals, of people who hurt others and themselves with no clear reason as to why. It had been easy to deem those same wrongdoers as bad or evil or wrong.

When Arsenal had experienced his… difficulties, Bruce had been among the first to blame his guardians, the people he believed to be responsible. It had been so easy to do. Roy was a junkie and a burnout, and clearly it was all Oliver’s fault… 

He was beginning to wish he would have looked at it from their perspective instead of waiting to be forced into a similar position.

When he had received that God-awful phone call from Barbara, his first thought was to wonder where he had gone wrong.

Because this wasn’t the Dick Grayson that Bruce knew. 

The Dick Bruce knew was vibrant and full of life and energy. Always positive. And in the  middle of the night, someone had swapped him with this stranger full of anger and hate and pain so deep Bruce didn’t know where it could have come from. What could have caused it. Until it was too late.

_ No. Don’t touch me. _

The memory of the audio footage forced its way back to the forefront of his mind, and he wished he could will it away. He had never heard Dick sound so vulnerable. So afraid. And yet? There had been a hint of resignation to his tone. As if he had just accepted his fate.  _ As if it had happened before… _

_ I’m poison. _

“Would you tell me what is going on?” Bruce had demanded on the way home from the counseling center. He knew, or at least knew part of it, but he couldn’t risk making things worse. He had invaded Dick’s privacy. He had known where the audio footage was leading, and he had continued to listen… Dick would likely never forgive him for that if he were to find out.

“You’re the world’s greatest detective,” Dick had snapped back. “You figure it out.”

And to see Dick lash out at Damian, when just six months ago, Dick would have gone to the ends of the world to protect the boy from any harm? It was unnatural and disturbing, and Bruce was beginning to think he was in over his head.

Fighting crime was easier than raising children.

He watched as Dick stormed up the stairs, something he had become quite talented at before turning to face Damian. “Are you all right?”

“I am fine,” Damian had said in a tone that suggested he was anything but. 

Bruce thought about pressing. What if he said nothing and Damian got worse until he followed Dick’s example? 

What if Bruce pushed and  _ that  _ ended up making things worse?

“I am going to my room,” Damian declared, and Bruce watched as he followed up the stairs, much in the same manner Dick had just seconds prior.

He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose and took several deep breaths in an attempt to keep calm. Losing his temper on anyone involved in this mess would not lead anywhere good.

Against his better judgment, he headed down to the Cave. He sat at the computer and typed his password in and encrypted the file once more.

_ No. Don’t touch me. _

_ Quiet, mi amor… _

He should have never approved of her. He should have never allowed Dick to take her under his wing and train her to be one of them.

He should have known…

**But now I’m told that this is life, and pain is just a simple compromise.**

**Jason**

He hadn't meant to arrive at the worst possible time, but if there was one thing constant in Jason’s life, it was bad timing. Too slow to steal the tires of the Batmobile. Too slow to avoid a literal explosion. And too slow to sneak out the door to avoid hearing a screaming match he would have rather not been around for.

He knew about Dick, even if no one had bothered telling him explicitly. But there were only a handful of reasons why Bruce would have sent him to break into Dick’s apartment to change the code on the gun safe. And if that hadn't tipped him off enough? The tipped over bottle of pills and the stains that never had been cleaned up certainly filled in the rest of the picture.

It would have been easiest to leave and pretend that he hadn't heard anything. To pretend that he hadn't seen Dick’s infamous temper explode on the least likely target. But Jason had never been a fan of easy solutions.

He turned on his heel and headed up the kitchen stairs rather than the main ones. He never had liked the grand staircase. It was too regal and expensive, and it had always reminded Jason of just how different he really was from the man who had taken him in.

He headed down the hall and paused outside Dick’s door, wondering if this was a good idea or an extremely stupid one. But what was the worst that could happen? Dick yelling at him? Please. He had handled a hell of a lot worse than someone misdirecting their anger at him.

He turned the knob and stepped inside, not bothering to knock first. Dick would tell him to go away if he knocked, and Jason would have entered anyway. Might as well skip a step and save some time.

He had expected the older man to blow up at him, something about knocking first or invading privacy or wanting to be alone… And he couldn’t help but think that screaming would have been preferable to what he walked into.

Jason figured anger must have turned to exhaustion. Dick lay on his bed, curled up on one side with a death grip on the blanket pulled up to his chin. He stared blankly across the room, staring at the wall, and didn’t even bother to see who had come to interrupt him.

“You know,” Jason stated as he moved over to the room, sitting on the edge of the bed beside the man he’d once idolized. The man who had stood for everything Jason wanted to be and never would be. “I always hated beige.”

A flicker of something that seemed like amusement flashed across Dick’s features, and Jason was grateful for it. He wasn’t too far gone then. He let silence fill the room for a few moments, unsure of what to say. Unsure if he should even say anything at all. 

Dick had to have been sick of people wanting to talk at him or to him or wanting him to talk to them. Jason knew he would have hated the constant prying and demands as to what was so wrong that he would try to do this.

It wasn’t helping, and Jason didn’t understand why no one seemed to realize that. Though he wasn’t shocked. Once Bruce got something in his head, it was an act of God to get it to change or go away. Not that they needed the worry to go away.

But the methods? They could use a little work.

“Want me to leave?” he asked, pulling a knee to his chest and turning to face Dick.

“Are you here to yell at me for yelling at Damian?” Dick asked, moving so he was sitting up, back against the headboard.

Jason crinkled his nose and shook his head ‘no.’ It wasn’t his place to lecture someone on bad behavior, and if Dick hadn't gotten the message that yelling at Damian had been wrong by then, he never would. There was no point in making him feel even worse about it. “I’ll leave the lectures to Bruce and Alfred, deal?”

“Deal.”

“I can go if you want,” Jason offered, leaning forward, ready to get up if Dick wanted him to.

“You can stay,” Dick said, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes met Jason’s, and Jason hated the hurt he could see in them.

Jason nodded and lay back against the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He didn’t talk. He didn’t need to. Dick would talk when he was ready, and when he was ready, Jason would be there to listen.


End file.
